


Flowers

by AnneLaAnne



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Gift Giving, M/M, Wooing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 15:18:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15099488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneLaAnne/pseuds/AnneLaAnne
Summary: “This better not be the remains of your Walther,gift-wrapped, because a pretty presentation does not negate the irresponsible and utterly abhorrent destruction of my tech, 007,” he called after the retreating figure, voice rising as his target moved away.





	1. Tea?

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing - please don't post this elsewhere.

“Q.” Bond placed his surviving tech - radio, camera tie pin, and earwig – in the metal receiving tray. Next to the tray, he placed a small cream sachet cinched tight with a gray silk ribbon.

Q frowned. “What’s this, then?” He didn’t reach for it, his eyes distrustful. He arched a brow and glanced up at Bond when he realized an answer was not immediately forthcoming.

Bond only smiled at him in that peculiar way he had, where his lips didn’t quite move but his eyes conveyed a smile just the same. He gave the workbench a casual parting knock as he pulled his hand back, tucking it away in his pocket, turning smoothly, and exiting the way he came.

“This better not be the remains of your Walther, _gift-wrapped_ , because a pretty presentation does not negate the irresponsible and utterly abhorrent destruction of my tech, 007,” he called after the retreating figure, voice rising as his target moved away.

Bond waved a hand in acknowledgement as he passed through Q Branch’s security door but did not turn or slow down and was out of sight before Q could say anything further. He harrumphed quietly to himself and then turned his attention back to the miraculously in-tact tech and the odd little sachet. He didn’t particularly believe that it contained the remains of a burnt out and ground down Walther, but he also wouldn’t put it past Bond to bring him the ashes of the gun just to vex his quartermaster; 007’s sense of humor was not always seemly and frequently opaque. 

He located a set of pliers on his cluttered workbench and used them to pick up the mystery packet. He examined the sachet at arm’s length and, finding nothing untoward or out of the ordinary, proceeded to wrangle the ribbon off using the pliers and a set of electrical tweezers. With the ribbon off, the sachet fell open to reveal its secrets. Q paused in surprise for several long seconds staring down into the little bag. The contents of the sachet looked an awful lot like loose-leaf tea. Odd. He considered bringing it closer for a sniff, but wariness won out over curiosity – at least for now. He cinched the ribbon up and extended his pliers again to drop the sachet at the far end of his desk.

Q returned to his electronic prototype – which by all accounts should’ve been a thoroughly fascinating and ingenious piece of tech if only he could fix a troublesome bug – but his mind lingered annoyingly on the sachet of probably-tea and what 007 could possibly mean by it. The fifth time he caught himself letting his eyes wander from sensitive tech to the maybe-tea, he huffed and set aside his tools. Gathering his empty mug, he strode determinedly toward the break room to put the kettle on.

A few minutes later found Q with a mug of hot water and the could-be-tea sachet in hand. He dithered a few moments, hand moving to pour out the sachet, then retracting, and repeat. Alas, curiosity won out over caution in the end, and into the mug went the contents of the mystery sachet.

Nothing fizzled or overflowed or exploded, so Q’s main concerns when it comes to dealing with 007 were allayed. The steam coming from the mug was now lightly fragranced and growing stronger as the loose-leaf steeped. The scent was both unidentifiable and also vaguely familiar; tea indeed, Q concluded, probably exotic. And as he continued to examine the swirling and swishing tea leaves, he noticed a steadily expanding ball of leaves. Before his eyes, it grew and bloomed until a flower took shape. A full blossom right there in his work mug. Truly, how odd of 007. 

Mystery solved – at least part of it, the possibly-tea now identified as definitely-tea – Q once again turned to resume work on his protype. A glance in the direction of his branch to check that all was well had his eye catching on a figure blocking the security door – none other than James Bond, staring placidly at Q. Q glanced to his flower/tea and then back to Bond. He narrowed his eyes, hoping to convey the bafflement, suspicion, and accusation to 007 regarding this inexplicable incident. Bond just smiled – a real smile this time, with lips and bright teeth and cheeks creased by laugh lines – and stepped backwards, right out of Q Branch once more. 

Curiouser and curiouser. One could never predict what 007 would do, but Q loved a good puzzle and though this recent development was odder than most, it was just another piece for him to use in the puzzle that is James Bond. Mind whirring, he returned to work, drank his tea, and hoped to God the flower wasn’t poisonous. 007’s opaque humor and all that.


	2. The Umbrella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was positively garish! Q loved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not do another run-through of editing, but I've been doing run-through's for so long I thought I'd better put it up or I'd never do so!

England and rain went together like tea and biscuits, but this was a bit excessive in Q’s surly opinion. Not only had it been raining heavily and almost constantly for the past six days, but the final downpour he’d experienced just an hour ago was apparently enough to warrant closing his tube station at the last minute. He’d left the comfort of his flat and didn’t receive the transit alert on his cell until he was already observing the flooded station staircase himself. He was forced to turn around and retrace his steps (terribly inefficient) since the other tube stop within walking distance (barely) to his flat was in the opposite direction. Only it so happened that on this leg of his commute, Q’s trusty umbrella – having worked its poor little spindles off all week long to keep off the rain – was buffeted right out of his hand by a particularly strong gale. It came to an abrupt end in a muddy gutter on the opposite side of the street, its badly torn fabric visible from afar. 

Between the subsequent unprotected walk to the not-so-close tube station and then from his stop to MI6, Q arrived a mess. His clothes were soaked through, his nose was sniffly, his hair was dripping, his shoes were squelching, his toes were numb, his hands were pale and clumsy with cold, and – worst of all – he was 25 minutes late. Q hated being late. He endeavored to be punctual in all matters and in work matters had in fact only ever been early. On top of that, he had to share an uncomfortable elevator ride from the lobby down to Q Branch with none other than 007 who had somehow managed to get to work completely dry. Not even his shoes looked wet, Q noticed grumpily. How any of the wildly reckless double-0s managed to look so neat and pressed most of the time was beyond him. It was illogical.  


Whilst Q was grumbling – only in his own head mind you, he was much too professional to do it out loud – he was aware of Bond giving him a once-over from the other side of the elevator. Q couldn’t decipher whether his expression was one of amusement or incredulousness, but since 007 was usually very hard to read, Q could only assume that his own appearance was even worse than anticipated to elicit that much reaction from a double-0.

“Q. Lovely weather we’re having.” Bond’s voice was purposefully and overwhelmingly pleasant. How rude.

“Yes, all this sunshine and blue skies, I almost forgot we’re in England,” Q responded flatly. There was no mistaking the amusement on Bond’s face now.

“Forgot your umbrella today?” Bond inquired politely.

Q sighed glumly. “It broke on the way in. It had a good run, I suppose, for a £5 street vendor purchase.”

Bond raised a single judgmental eyebrow. “It’s no wonder it broke; street hawkers with umbrellas are tourist traps, Q.”

“It was practical at the time,” he argued, “and it ended up lasting me nine years. That’s not bad for any umbrella, street vendor or whatever designer bespoke umbrella you’ve got.”

Q made a face when Bond glanced pointedly down at his own dry clothes. “I’ve got a custom Aston, Q, and a reserved spot in the covered car park.”

The elevator chimed its arrival in Q Branch, halting any reply from Q as the doors opened to an unexpectedly bustling branch. Q was spotted immediately by an underling who loudly announced his presence with both urgency and relief, resulting in several minions rushing him with files, laptop, and comm unit in hand, talking over each other to explain the various complications of 005’s mission gone tits-up on the Mongolian-Chinese border. With his arms full, and probably ruining files through osmosis with his sopping cardigan, Q could only seek 007’s eyes over his shoulder for a polite parting nod as he was pulled away from the closing elevator doors.

The next nine hours were spent wrangling complete chaos into organized chaos, keeping 005 alive and out of the hands of the Chinese government. He succeeded just in time for 008 to arrive at his own mission locale, requiring several comm-heavy hours of surveillance and guidance to get the double-0 into position. By the time 008 had infiltrated effectively and gone radio silent, Q was exhausted.  


He often worked 12, 14, and even 16-hour days, but that was when he could divide his attention between coding projects, tech development, government-approved hacking, and running missions (not to mention the piles of paperwork and reports required of a department head). A continuous nine-hour stretch of direct, high-stakes mission oversight was not his ideal day at work. Even less ideal when wearing cold, soggy shoes for the duration. His clothes had eventually dried out to a state of vague dampness, but his socks and shoes were still in a sorry state. Q hypothesized that his toes would bear an exact resemblance to craisins, both in color and texture, whenever he found the time to remove his ruined footwear.

All in all, Q was ready to call it a day. He had made zero progress on any of the projects he had planned to work on today, but the sniffles caused by his rainy commute that morning had not gone away when his clothes dried out, as he’d been hoping they would. Q was dreading the possibility that he’d be in for an unpleasant bout of rhinovirus. If the sniffles didn’t go away with a shortened nine-hour work day and a decent night’s sleep, the calm and aloof professionalism he prided himself on was sure to devolve embarrassingly into an irritable and prickly disposition. He already got side-eyed for his age, he didn’t want to acquire a reputation for petty outbursts and strops (he really didn’t do well with colds, so sue him).

Decision made, Q secured his public work station and made his way through Q-Branch to his private office. He hadn’t stepped foot in it all day, a minion having divested him of his drenched jacket and messenger bag upon his arrival and delivering it to his office on his behalf, so Q could jump straight in with 005. What he found was not what he expected; the door was ajar and the desk lamp on. Q kept a tidy desk top, so the parcel on top of his desk stood out in the circle of lamp light. It was at least a meter long, thin, and wrapped in plain brown paper. Q, who had stopped short at the door, turned to survey Q-Branch for the culprit; no one was looking in his direction or acting shiftily. He turned back to appraise the rest of his office and found nothing else out of sorts. He was struck suddenly by the memory of the tea sachet from the week before at Bond’s post-mission check in. Bond was still on leave between assignments, and Q had seen him here at MI6 today. Could this possibly be another of 007’s…. he wouldn’t call it a prank, but he didn’t quite know what else to call it either. A lark?

Knowing that only Q-Branch workers and high-clearance MI6 personnel could even access his office, Q wasn’t too wary about the origins or contents of the parcel. Q was a genius with odds and probabilities, and all signs pointed to Bond. And, even if it wasn’t Bond, chances were it was a delivery of tech or parts for tech. He picked it up – it was lighter than he thought it would be – and turned it over to pick at the tape keeping it wrapped. The paper fell away to reveal an umbrella. It was truly outlandish – one of the largest umbrellas Q had ever seen and, even with the cloth strapped down around the handle, it was eye-catchingly bright in color. 

Though he never showed it outwardly (professionalism above all else, that was Q), he was often maddeningly frustrated by the various MI6, MI5, and other government personnel he had occasion to work with who expressed disbelief at his appointment as Quartermaster and cast judgement on his capabilities strictly based on his age. He could not stand being thought of as naive and incompetent. On the other hand, he had not a care in the world when it came to being judged for his appearance, mainly his ‘eccentric’ fashion choices. It made no difference to Q what people thought of his dress. He loved each and every piece of clothing in his closet, carefully curated for colors, patterns, textures, comfort, and all very pleasing to the eye – Q’s eye, of course, not some stodgy old bureaucrats’. He always wore professional business clothing, tie included, so it was of no consequence in Q’s opinion if his blazer was velvet, or his corduroys were purple.

Whoever left him this knew about the recent demise of his umbrella and was attentive to Q’s aesthetic preferences. Though he was now certain that Bond was the one who procured the umbrella and snuck it into his office, he was not certain whether the bright colors peeking out were meant as a mocking commentary on his youth and wardrobe, or whether it was actually well-meant and sincerely chosen for Q’s tastes. Once again, 007’s obscure humor made his intentions indecipherable. A good quality for a spy to have but rather vexing for the every-day people who had to interact with the double-0.  


Q was not superstitious and thus had no problem opening the umbrella indoors, but the flamboyancy of the colors, even wrapped up as it was, might draw unnecessary attention from his underlings. So, tucking the umbrella under his arm and quickly gathering his things, Q locked up his office and hurried up the stairs, through the lobby, and out onto the steps of MI6. He stopped just under the building’s overhang, taking advantage of the shelter as it was still drizzling miserably. 

Q released the strap around the umbrella and pushed the round button just above the handle. In two smooth motions, the umbrella’s core extended, and at its full height, the spindles popped open with the swooshing sound of fabric stretched tight. Pure delight flushed warm through Q at what the water-proof fabric revealed: a sunflower! It was centered at the tip of the umbrella, a bright cheery yellow. Around the outside, where each petal dipped in towards the middle, was a different vibrant color – green, orange, blue, purple.

It was positively garish! Q loved it. He spun the handle to see it twirl. Q was immensely pleased, almost bordering on gleeful, but he was still an arm’s throw from MI6’s front door, and gleeful was an unbefitting state for a Quartermaster. He’d contain his glee over his new cheery umbrella until he made it to his own front door. 

If Q noticed a dark figure outlined rather unsubtly against the white rooftops of MI6 watching his progress – the pop of color contrasting shockingly with a sea of dreary grays and blacks – across the bridge and down the steps to his train, he kindly gave no indication.


	3. Take-Away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing - please don't post this elsewhere.

It was quickly approaching midnight, and Q was feeling surprisingly lively. Q-Branch was not so lively, whittled down to a skeleton crew by the late hour and low activity level. It had been a long day but not hectic (he’d knock on wood if he was superstitious), so he was still fairly bright-eyed considering the time. His attire was a bit more rumpled now that he’d passed the 16-hour mark, his tie loosened, buttoned collar undone, and cardigan sleeves rolled up to his elbows. But unlike most of Q’s late nights in the branch, he wasn’t ready for his shift to end.

Rather than heading home after a strenuous day, bleary-eyed and fatigued, he was contentedly contemplating all of the pet projects currently on the back-burner that he could now dedicate a few uninterrupted hours to. (Most of them were experimental and ‘fun’ projects that hadn’t officially been submitted to M or Accounting for green-lighting yet.)

Though he would only admit to staying later due to unexpected time and energy for long-neglected projects, he might also have been influenced by the awareness that Bond was still in the building. Having returned hours earlier from a mission halfway around the world, Q assumed that a combination of time zone changes and a post-mission high kept Bond awake and active at M16 – currently in the pool area, as Q’s casual perusal of the security cameras revealed. If he was staying in part because Bond made habitual rounds through the building – rather like a bored guard dog – and those rounds always, _always_ included a stop in Q-Branch, then that was Q’s business.

Q had recently put a lot of thought into his own interactions with Bond. Much of his cautious demeanor toward the double-0 was about creating distance. Without that distance, it would be much too easy to be drawn in by the enigma that was Bond. But after some rumination, Q concluded the best way to gain a better understanding of 007 was to engage rather than to puzzle from a distance. And frankly, Q just plain _wanted_ to do so – to close the distance, to engage. He enjoyed their chats over comms during mission down-times, Bond describing local scenery, people, and food, or Q talking Bond through new weapons and tech as he’s working on them. (“No, absolutely not ‘toys’ Bond, valuable government property paid for by hard-working, tax-paying citizens. Stop breaking them, you wanker.”) The snarking back and forth was often a highlight of his day.

Being wary in person and warm over comms seemed pointless, the result of Q’s analysis being that it was illogical to treat Bond any differently in person than he did remotely. So if Q kept MI6’s internal camera feeds open in his periphery while he put himself to work on an especially exciting bit of magnetized projectiles, it was only logical to do so.

As expected, Bond’s wandering inevitably brought him to Q-Branch. Unexpectedly, he brought more than just himself. Q was perplexed as to how or when Bond obtained the plastic bag currently dangling from his wrist and wafting delicious dinner smells in Q’s direction. As soon as Bond made eye contact, Q straightened from his bent position over his workbench, arching a brow in question and utterly failing to keep his lips from curving up at the sides.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Bond smirked from the other side of the bench.

“Q in Q-Branch,” Q retorted dryly, “yes, what a surprise. You haven’t come to check in at this hour, have you?” He pulled his eyes from Bond’s warm gaze to drop them pointedly to the bag. Q hoped simultaneously that this was another ‘gift’ that Bond intended to share and that his stomach wouldn’t growl audibly. He had resorted to splitting his homemade lunch into two once it became apparent his day would be turning into night. Half a lunch does not a hearty supper make, and he’d eaten it hours ago.

“No equipment in here I’m afraid,” Bond said as he hefted the bag up onto the work bench, Q scrambling to sweep bits and bobs out from underneath it. As Bond moved to unknot the handles and unpack the bag, Q continued to corral his workbench into some semblance of order until there was a large clear space in the middle, filling up rapidly with Bond’s (and hopefully Q’s) dinner. It smelled like Thai take-away. Q was curious as to how Bond had discovered Thai was his favorite and, at the same time, wholly unsurprised that he had. This was an organization of spies after all.

Q couldn’t help but notice, as he pulled one a bit closer to himself, that each box had a stylized lotus flower printed on the side. Two times could be dismissed as a probable coincidence, but three times now struck Q with the wild thought that James was bringing him _flowers_. James Bond. Bringing him. The Quartermaster. Flowers. Q’s brain stuck hard attempting to process that idea, so he promptly decided to table it for later. Preferably much later, at home, alone, where he could really sink his metaphorical teeth into it because, though it was a little thought, it potentially held great meaning.

Aware that he’d paused abruptly in both his movement and mental presence, Q snapped back to attention, busying himself with inspecting the rest of the take-away boxes. Opening them one by one as Bond unpacked them, Q peered inside and was increasingly pleased with each edible treasure revealed. Unfortunately, his gratification was betrayed suddenly and noisily by his stomach. Q kept his head down but glanced up through his lashes; yes, James had definitely heard that, his smirk transformed into an impish grin. Q absolutely wasn’t flushing, no he was not.

Ruthlessly suppressing a grin in return (James’ was terribly infectious), Q gave an exaggerated haughty sniff and said, “I see you’ve got two full orders of spring rolls. Not one for sharing, 007?”

“On the contrary, my intel suggested multiple orders of spring rolls or risk a limb trying to share one with you.”

Q lost the battle with his facial expression and positively beamed at Bond. He indeed was greedy when it came to fresh spring rolls, and he wasn’t ashamed of it. “Smart. I’m certain this combination of preparedness and self-preservation instinct would be useful during your missions, you know.”

Bond huffed, just short of a laugh. “Useful, maybe. Much less fun, though.” He pulled two wrapped forks out of his pocket, handing one over to Q. “Dig in, Quartermaster.”

Q graciously accepted his fork, fingers brushing Bond’s, and then promptly discarded it in favor of scooping up a spring roll and shoving half of it into his mouth. He was hungry and unapologetic. Besides, there was no one else in this part of Q-Branch to judge his decorum, and it was laughable to think that Bond cared about propriety.

Indeed, Bond took that as his cue to dig in as well. Together, they made their way through an alarming amount of food in companionable silence. It wasn’t until Q was sopping up the last of the curry sauce with his rice that he initiated a new conversation.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the food, but…” Q trailed off not quite sure how to word his inquiry in a way that wasn’t borderline offensive or too blunt. Bond didn’t help him out, waiting patiently for Q to finish and giving no indication of comprehension though Q was sure he already knew the intended question. Tosser.

Q sighed, exasperated. “This is a first,” he prompted again, gesturing vaguely at the ruins of their dinner cluttering up his workbench. Silence stretched between them as Q waited expectantly for a response that apparently would not be forthcoming. Miffed, he narrowed his eyes to a squint, staring Bond down and refusing to break the silence. No effect. Bond held his gaze steady, eyes fond. Q huffed, giving up the ill-advised staring contest with the double-0. Perhaps blunt was an unavoidable necessity when working with a willful agent, he mused.

“ _Why_? I mean thank you, of course, for bringing me dinner, but, _why_ did you?” Q asked earnestly. There was another silent pause, and when Bond didn’t jump in, “This was unexpected to be sure, out of character even, for you,” Q finished lamely. “No offense,” he tagged on as an afterthought. He certainly didn’t mean any offense and trusted that Bond would see that. But an explanation would be welcome.

Luckily, Bond was not easy to offend. He actually appeared quite chuffed at his ability to throw Q into a state of bewilderment. “You’ve had a long day. You always make sure I make it through the night; I thought I’d return the favor for once. And it was long past dinnertime,” Bond answered with surprising honesty. He was smiling with his eyes again.

Q didn’t know what to say to that. At a loss, he thanked Bond again, defaulting to ingrained politeness. He felt unaccountably flushed. Bond surprised him once more by pulling out one last packet from the abandoned take-away bag and pushing it across the workbench to the quartermaster.

“A little something sweet for the ride home,” he winked – somehow Bond made it look smooth instead of ridiculous. Voice soft and low now, he finished, “Safe travels, Q. See you tomorrow.” Leaving behind the detritus of their supper, Bond strolled away through the darkened empty branch.

“Goodnight, 007,” Q called after his retreating figure. Q was still a little mystified by the turn of events, but all in all, it had been an enjoyable interlude. He turned his attention to the white paper packet, the final parting gift from Bond. Unfolded, the packet contained a Thai dessert that he recognized as kanom dok jok – a fried cookie in the shape of a lotus flower. Q was undeniably charmed. He munched on it as he tidied his workbench and gathered his things to head out for the night.

Later, when Q was safely ensconced at home, alone, he allowed his thoughts to circle back to the previously tabled idea… flowers. James Bond, 007, bringing Q flowers – admittedly of a non-traditional variety – was now an irrefutable pattern. Q had some thinking to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment if you wish, but please be constructive vs destructive... this is my first fic so be gentle! Thank you.


End file.
